


Rhapsody and Fugue

by Melanthios



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Ambiguously POC!Dick Grayson, Black!Bruce Wayne, Crossover Cameos As I See Fit, Daddy/Boy Romance, Discussion Of Gay Concentration Camp Survivors, Discussion of Homophobia, Father-Son Relationship, Healthy Relationships, Jewish!Waynes, M/M, No Sexual Content, Pre-Relationship Slash, Realistic Amounts Of Staff For Wayne Manor, Sex Worker Characters, Slow Burn, childhood sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 12:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6424762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanthios/pseuds/Melanthios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of Dickie's story, perhaps with more detail than most canon versions. Or: I got really angry when I cracked open All-Star Batman and Robin, so angry that I needed to <span class="u"><b><i>fix it</i></b></span>.</p><p>  <i>‘I’m sorry,’ was the first thing the Bat said to him, in a voice that was a little growly, but not harsh, not like when he’d been talking to the men that had taken Dickie off into the woods to kill him.</i> </p><p>  <i>Dickie felt relief, at the sound of that voice; being in a show meant he was used to odd types, people who didn’t get on in regular society much, people who didn’t talk much, or talked oddly, or growled at everyone. Hearing the gruffness mixed with those gentle words made it a little clearer what kind of person the Bat was.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickie arrives in the Batcave after being rescued from certain death!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dickie mentioning that a cave will 'let you leave' refers to the common belief of many travelling cultures across Europe and America, that sleeping inside a building will spiritually trap you there. I'm extrapolating, I have no idea if the feelings about caves are different from those about buildings, so don't take this as an authoritative view on the subject.
> 
> Unfortunately, the information about cirkies being seen as expendable and 'not-real-people' is true, especially in this era.
> 
> Because I've gotten comments asking about this: please note that Dickie is _ambiguously_ POC. I am purposely _not_ making him specifically Rroma because of the racist motivations of the author that originated that piece of canon. I also refuse to portray a culture where the research is often racist and inaccurate and add my (white) voice to the din of other white voices that have no right to speak. His _culture_ is no more and no less than that of the circus and carnival, because that is what I have _accurate_ and _respectful_ research on.

When Dickie first got rescued by the Bat, he was scared. The Bat was as violent as the men that talked casually about killing him, that called him a ‘loose end’. Dickie had sat, shaking, in the car, wrapped in the fluffy towel the Bat had put around his wet shoulders. For a long time, there was nothing but the smooth hum of the car, and the pattering of the spring rain on the windows.

‘I’m sorry,’ was the first thing the Bat said to him, in a voice that was a little growly, but not harsh, not like when he’d been talking to the men that had taken Dickie off into the woods to kill him.

Dickie felt relief, at the sound of that voice; being in a show meant he was used to odd types, people who didn’t get on in regular society much, people who didn’t talk much, or talked oddly, or growled at everyone. Hearing the gruffness mixed with those gentle words made it a little clearer what kind of person the Bat was.

‘I lost my parents when I was your age too,’ the Bat went on, quietly, slowing down smooth as anything and taking a curve in the road. ‘Not lost,’ he said, frowning. ‘No, they were murdered, just like yours, I mean. I know that—that feeling. The questions.’

‘People kill cirkies all the time,’ Dickie said dully, almost bitter; what did this man, this big, strong, rich man, with his smooth brown skin and handsome jawline, know about being in a show? What did he know about travelling around, the way people treated you when you didn’t have a fixed address, weren’t ‘from round here’?

‘People kill cirkies all the time, yes; it’s still _evil_ ,’ the Bat said, obviously trying to modulate his great big voice to be softer, quieter, so as not to frighten. Dickie appreciated when adults did that. ‘It’s wrong to treat people like things, or monsters, or tools.’

Dickie frowned, but pressed down his rage; right now, he was relying on the Bat’s good will toward him, he couldn’t afford to be angry.

There was a long silence, and Dickie heard the Bat give a soft sigh. ‘I know I’m a rich man, and I’m not from a show. I’m not even from show business in any sense. I can’t—and I won’t presume—to understand that. But I want to help you how I can.’

‘Why?’ Dickie asked, ‘what do you get out of it?’

‘Well, I see myself in you. I’d be lying if I said part of my reasons for helping wasn’t that. People see themselves in other people, they feel like that person is somehow part of their group because of it. I felt that with you.’

Dickie thought on this for a while. ‘Thank you for being honest,’ he decided. ‘I wouldn’t have liked you if you’d said whatever flatties always say, trying to act like they aren’t as selfish as everyone else.’

‘Well, I guess my selfishness is going to keep you safe from now on,’ the Bat said, and let Dickie see a little smile.

‘I guess that’s all right. That’s what we do in the show,’ Dickie said, ‘especially the Marvels,’ he added thoughtfully.

‘The Marvels?’

‘The Freaks,’ Dickie said. ‘Where do you live?’ he asked, watching them drive along the side of a cliff, the foam of the sea just barely visible through the rain.

‘Ah,’ said the Bat. ‘That would be a secret you’re about to find out.’

The lights in the car suddenly all went dim, and the headlights went _out_ , and the Bat turned into a part of the cliff that looked solid, but gave like air, and suddenly they were in the dark, moving a lot slower.

‘We have to make it dark because of the bats that live here,’ the Bat said quietly. ‘We don’t like to disturb them, they’re endangered.’

‘In other words,’ Dickie said, ‘you’re not trying to scare me.’

‘In other words,’ the Bat said, and Dickie heard the little huff of breath that hid a laugh.

‘Are people usually afraid of you, then?’

‘I try to make myself frightening,’ the Bat said, the car coming to a smooth halt, the top sliding back with the smooth hiss of hydraulics. There was the sound of a big garage door finally closing all the way, and some lights came on, revealing a cave that had been turned into a big room full of all kinds of things, and bridges and platforms connecting up with ramps and railings. There was a big computer with lots of screens, and some more vehicles that looked like spaceships or big metal predatory beasts, maybe some of them flew, he wasn’t sure, they were so _unlike_ anything he’d ever seen. There were elevator doors too, and Dickie followed the elevator shaft up into the darkness, wondering what was above them.

There was also a man in servants’ black waiting for them. He smiled a little at Dickie, a genuine smile, if reserved, and Dickie liked him for that. Most people didn’t bother smiling at Dickie, unless they knew him. Especially servants.

‘Shall I prepare the garret room for the young master’s stay?’ Despite being referred to in third person, Dickie got the feeling he was being asked if he _wanted_ to stay. But he hesitated to answer, looking up at the Bat.

‘Oh, surely somewhere warmer than that, Alfred,’ the Bat said.

‘As I recall, and perhaps the young master will corroborate, it is uncomfortable for one so used to the outdoors to sleep inside a building.’ He addressed Dickie directly to explain, ‘The garret room has a large skylight on the slant of the ceiling, and it’s quite as small as a large tent.’

‘I suppose that might be okay,’ Dickie said, a little stunned at an outsider having knowledge, immediately trying to figure out why he knew this stuff, and how he would know what a tent was like. Of course, the man was old enough to have been in one or both Wars. And Dickie could hardly ask for a tent and sleep out by himself, it was raining and he was far too small to keep up his own body heat. But… staying inside a building, it seemed uncomfortable.

Then again, staying inside a cave wasn’t so much. A cave was natural, it would let you leave. ‘Uh… can I sleep down here?’ Dickie asked, hesitating just enough to show that he _was_ aware it was possibly an imposition.

‘I’ll fetch some blankets,’ the servant named Alfred said, with a little bow that hid a smile—but Dickie was short enough to spot it, the smile, the twinkle old men could get around their eyes.

‘You’ve never slept in a house before,’ the Bat didn’t say it like a question.

‘Buildings are weird,’ Dickie said, wrinkling his nose. ‘It feels… wrong, being in one place for more than a day or two. I’ll… I’ll have to get used to it, I guess.’ He realised. ‘I can’t go home anymore, can I?’ He heard how small his voice sounded, and it only made him feel more wobbly. The Bat gently put a hand on his shoulder, lightly at first, in case Dickie didn’t want the touch.

‘I’m sorry,’ the Bat said, ‘Those men, they’ll find you again.’

Dickie was nodding, sniffling, his eyes burning. ‘I d-don’t—I don’t want—they’d get hurt. The rest of the show.’

‘Yes, you’re right. And… it’s okay to be upset. They’re your family, you love them.’

Dickie let the tears fall—or maybe he lost the fight with them, he wasn’t sure. He cried, and cried, and felt the dark cape wrap around him, and smelled leather, and it was comforting, the weight and the smell; he sat down where he was, even though it was cold concrete, and he hid and cried. After a little while, someone put something else on top of him, a big fluffy featherbed, and slowly, Dickie let the tears ebb away, aware that someone was sitting with him, rubbing his back gently through the blankets.

‘It’s gonna be okay,’ came the Bat’s soft voice, smoother now, like he’d hung up his wings and his scariness. It helped that his every movement didn’t squeak with armour. ‘You just cry as much as you want, it’s okay….’

Not asking, not trusting himself to ask, Dickie half-rolled, half-crawled over until he found a lap and curled up in it. This was better. He was glad when the Bat didn’t push him away, wrapping arms around him.

‘I’ve got you,’ he whispered, and Dickie knew, deep down, that _this_ man, more than anybody else in the whole world, _meant_ it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickie wakes up to a fairy tale of a new life!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Realistic Amounts Of Staff For That Damn House in this chapter, because it always bothered me that it was _just_ Alfred. Having been part of the serving staff of a 1br apartment, I can tell you that it's completely unrealistic to have _one_ servant for that house. Two servants was barely enough for a small apartment!
> 
> Also, the book Dickie is thinking of is _A Little Princess_.

When Dickie woke up, he was in a little alcove in the cave, sleeping on something very soft, and still wrapped in the cape and the featherbed, soft pillows surrounding him. He felt like he was in a cloud. It was warm, he could hear the cheerful little hum of a space heater somewhere nearby, and smelled the clean outside smells of rocks and the sea, heard the strange echoing whispers of bats somewhere in the distance. He dug his way out of his cloud and saw he was in a tent lit with a string of christmas lights. There were layers of soft persian rugs piled on top of each other to cover the floor, and something that looked very much like a real sheepskin or maybe a pile of them. A steamer trunk was nearby, and a folding table by the bed had on it a clock that said it was ten, probably in the morning, and a note in an envelope of thick and expensive paper. Dickie felt like he was in some kind of _dream_ of a show. No show could afford such expensive persian rugs, or down pillows, or paper like this. He opened the envelope, and read a long letter that was written in the kind of handwriting that was pretty, but not too hard to read.

_Little One,_

_I’m sorry to address you so, but I don’t know what you want me to call you, and didn’t want to offend. I tried to make a little corner of the cave nice and warm for you. I know my things aren’t the same, but I wouldn’t expect them to be. There are clothes your size in the trunk, I didn’t know what colours you liked, so I gave you a wide range. I know everything is very hard right now, but I need to talk to you about some things that have to do with who is going to take care of you now. I would like to, but I want you to have choices, and not feel trapped here._

_Outside your tent there are some marks on the floor. The blue line will lead you to the bathroom; there are towels and everything you might need in the bathroom already. The yellow line goes up to the elevator. Use the key in the trunk. You’ll go up and the elevator should open in my library. I should be there, but if I’m not, find the rope by the clock and pull it, and Alfred will come find you. I hope you slept well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you wish._

_Sincerely,_

_B_

Dickie read over the letter three times, and set it on the table, going over to the trunk and opening it. The top tray had pair after pair of fancy shoes in it, even brand-new cowboy boots. Dickie wondered how rich he was, as he slowly looked through all the clothes. Everything was soft, and looked like it was for a little prince. And there were _lots_ of colours, every colour Dickie might want.

It wasn’t that Dickie didn’t think he deserved things like this; he simply had never even thought about them, they were that far away from his perception of the world. His world was jeans and t-shirts and sweaters knitted by someone he knew, and a costume with spangles on it for working. Not clothes with tags that said ‘100% cashmere’ and ‘Dry Clean Only’ and ‘Yves St Laurent’ and ‘Pucci’. And suits. And ties. And dressing gowns and… Dickie was a little overwhelmed. He remembered a book he’d found once, one of the few children’s books he’d ever read, about a little girl who gets a mysterious rich benefactor.

As Dickie slowly picked out an outfit, he remembered _she’d_ lived in a little garret room, with a window on a slanted ceiling she could poke her head and shoulders out of. He’d thought that sounded much nicer than a room with a little tiny window on a wall, that was shaped like a box.

Cowboy boots. They were very nice ones, too, they looked useful for riding a real horse.

As he pulled them on over the very soft socks, Dickie wondered if the Bat _had_ any real horses. Rich people sometimes kept horses as pets, and the Bat would be the kind of man to be good to his pets, the way he talked about wild animals like bats.

Looking through the small compartments of the trunk’s top tray again, Dickie found some keys, a wallet, and pocketed them. He also found a lot of other things that seemed… well, really more like treasures than things you might actually _wear_. Cufflinks, pins, gloves made of fine leather. It was so strange, thinking that all this was being given to him just like that. _I would like to take care of you now_. Dickie knew this trunk was backing up those words. Only he didn’t just feel taken care of. That would have been a pair of jeans that sorta fit and a shirt and a sweater in case he was cold, and some clean underwear and socks without holes in them, and a sandwich. This was…

Dickie took the robe, and the letter, and went outside the flap of the tent. There were, as promised, two lines on the floor, made of coloured tape. He followed the blue one, and found a bathroom that had been fitted into the cave, with a floor that was just rough enough to never be slippery, and a shiny shower head that jutted right out of the cave wall. Dickie got undressed, and set his clothes on the bench outside the shower, and got in. The water was hot and the pressure was so even it felt like rain. The towels were fluffy and Dickie wasn’t sure what to do with the wet one, so he rolled it up like he’d been taught and carried it along, and put the soaps back where he’d found them on the same bench.

He had a _library_. A library in his house. Dickie read over the words as he followed the yellow line to the elevator, and looked for the button. There wasn’t one, but there was a keyhole where one should be. Dickie tried the other key and the doors opened. When they opened again, he was in a mansion.

‘Good morning, little one,’ The Bat was sitting on one of the many sofas in the room, setting aside a book. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Yes,’ Dickie answered, and then said, ‘I didn’t know what to do with my towel.’

‘You can hang it up here on this,’ the Bat said, swinging out an iron rod that had been pressed against the mantelpiece. ‘And we’ll go down into the kitchen for breakfast.’

Dickie looked up at him, at his face. It wasn’t covered anymore, and it looked friendlier that way; Dickie was surprised to see blue eyes looking back at him. People with dark brown skin did not often have blue eyes. ‘I’m Dickie,’ he said.

‘Nice to meet you, Dickie. I’m Bruce.’

‘Can we talk about the things in the letter after breakfast?’

‘Yes we can.’

‘What’s for breakfast?’

‘Eggs and bacon, sausage, the berries have started coming in so I made muffins—that’s the only thing I _can_ make in a kitchen.’ He laughed a little at himself. ‘Alfred’s got the rest covered, though, don’t you worry.’

As they ate, Dickie thought about a lot of things. He liked the kitchen; it was big, but in a way that said it could hold a lot of people. Kitchens were _supposed_ to be big. The long table looked a little lonely to Dickie, but he liked the quiet bustle of the young lady sorting berries and fruit at the other end, and the older lady that was minding a pot of jam, or filling, or something. Alfred was at the other stove and had made sausages and bacon and eggs and when Dickie had asked for toast he’d _fried some_. Dickie was stunned, he hadn’t known you could put bread in a pan like that. It was delicious. So were the blueberry muffins that Bruce had made. There were so many blueberries in them that Dickie marvelled at how they didn’t fall apart.

Everyone said good morning, and he said good morning back, and Bruce introduced them all. There was Alfred, who was the butler; and there was Rose, she was the cook that was minding the pot; and the younger lady was Keavy, who minded the garden and chickens and helped around the kitchen. There were other servants, one came in and out a few times, but he was very busy-looking. Bruce said he was Eli, and mostly cleaned and did dishes. Most of the manor was shut up and sheeted, since not very many people lived there any longer, so Eli wasn’t kept too busy, especially with a few others who shared the cleaning of the house.

It wasn’t a lot of servants for such a big house, but Dickie did have to think about staying here meaning he’d have to get used to people doing things for him. He was used to doing cleaning and things _with_ other people, that was all right; but servants was something else. Where else could he go, though? It was here, or it was an orphanage. Despite his misgivings, Dickie had no desire to be left to the government—he’d read Oliver Twist before.

‘I think I’ll stay here, please,’ he said, after he finished the last of his water. ‘Would I have to go to school?’

‘You would, yes. It’s the law,’ Bruce told him, sipping his tea.

‘I don’t have any papers.’

‘Papers can be made.’

‘Well I know that, but I mean wouldn’t you need _legal_ papers to go to school, and things?’

Bruce chuckled. ‘I don’t mean forging them, Dickie. Papers can be made legally too.’

‘Oh,’ Dickie hadn’t thought of that; he wasn’t immigrating from another country, after all, he’d been born in America. He just hadn’t been born in a hospital or ever gone to school. He recovered beautifully, though, and smiled at Bruce. ‘Okay. I guess school isn’t so bad.’

Bruce’s breath caught, at that smile; he’d seen lots of smiles, knew how to read them, which were fake and which were real, which were innocent and which were sly. Dickie’s smile was… was something _else_. Maybe it was the fact that he smiled with his whole body, not just his mouth and his eyes. Or maybe it was just something about him, some inner glow of warmth. Bruce didn’t want to lose it, didn’t want anything to make it die. He was sharply reminded of the night before, when he’d been able to hold Dickie in his lap, just hold him, close his arms protectively around this little life, the way he wanted to protect so many others. It was one thing to know you were protecting the city, but another to feel it, feel the fluttering life in your own arms, the trust in the calmness and stillness of it.

Was this what it meant to love a son?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickie does a lot of reflecting—and meets a famous detective!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing about jaguars is true; I was told it applies to all 'small cats' (leopards, jaguars, etc) while at an animal expo talking to a wild cat trainer about the leopard he'd brought with him (in a cage, as per his own cautions to me about said leopard).
> 
> Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin are creations of Rex Stout, not me.

Dickie didn’t know how to cope with the random bursting into tears as something reminded him of his family. Bruce did. He always knew what to say, and so, Dickie learned, did Alfred—however formal and saturnine Alfred was about it. By the end of the first week, Dickie wasn’t regretting his decision. Bruce came down with him every night after dinner and after watching Dickie’s new favourite show (which aired just before the cut-off and was called _Dreadful Boys!_ ), and even though it might have seemed babyish to some kids, Dickie liked that Bruce tucked him in and kissed his forehead.

Especially because Dickie always got _two_ kisses: one from Bruce and then, some little while later, one from the Bat. Often, the Bat would also touch his head, as though laying some special charm of protection with the caress.

Late at night, Dickie never really knew how late, the Bat would come home, and Dickie would always sleepily remember a third kiss, a soft feeling that he was extra safe, because the Bat was home now. The soft and distantly-echoing tapping of keys, the grinding, whirring, occasionally bleeping noises from the massive racks of computers and technology the Bat used just comforted him even more, lulling him back to sleep until morning.

The funeral of John and Mary Grayson still had to be arranged. Dickie knew it did, he was practical enough to know that, but he also knew it wasn’t something he personally wanted to do. He knew a lot of people did, but whenever he sat and looked out the window and thought about it, he didn’t want to face all those people again, hear them remembering his parents. He liked that, a lot of the time, he didn’t think about it. He liked that nothing here in his new life reminded him of his old life.

Bruce had asked him if he wanted to talk to a therapist at all, and had explained what a therapist was. There had been one he’d talked to about his parents, when he’d been younger: a tall, graceful, soft-spoken man from Lithuania, that had helped him describe his feelings, and put names to them, be aware of them and aware of what symbols and thoughts might help him cope. ‘He’s passed on now,’ Bruce said softly, ‘but I know how to find someone if you want that. I think it might help, having someone other than strong silent types like me and Alfred to talk to. Someone who understands all the different ways feelings and events can interact.’ He’d squeezed their joined hands softly. ‘Don’t answer right now. Think about it.’

Dickie had thought about it. He found himself thinking about a lot of things, nowadays, where before he just remembered talking, doing. He wondered who his therapist would be, what they would be like. Part of him was sad that he wouldn’t be able to meet Bruce’s nice therapist, but it couldn’t be helped. 

He wondered about the newspapers Bruce got—he took a _lot_ of newspapers, even newspapers in different languages, that were from Europe, and even Japan and China. He said he only skimmed them, but Dickie still thought it was pretty impressive, skimming all that information every day.

One morning, Bruce didn’t start reading right away; he never did, but Dickie sensed something was different, as he watched Bruce stir sugar and cream into his tea.

‘I’ve got to meet someone this morning, a detective I’ve asked to help me find who murdered your folks,’ Bruce said, ‘I’d like you to come along, if you’re up to talking about that night, and all of that stuff. I told Mr Wolfe you may not be, it’s okay if you aren’t ready yet.’

‘No,’ Dickie said firmly. ‘I can help if I talk to him, right? I can help bring this m—this person to justice. That’s important.’ He said, setting his jaw the way he’d seen the Bat do before, trying to glare like him. ‘I can do it.’

As Bruce looked at that little mimicry of his face, he didn’t see a little boy endearingly imitating his superhero persona; no, he saw another little boy, one from long ago, with darker skin and blue eyes, sitting in his place, determined to find his parents’ killer. Bruce didn’t smile, but the look he raised to Dickie’s determined gaze was satisfied, even proud. He gave a little nod.

‘Okay. Then today, you meet two colleagues of mine, they taught me everything I know about detective work. And they’re helping us get to the bottom of this case.’

Bruce hadn’t spoken much about ‘the case’ to Dickie—Dickie hadn’t really asked much, content that it was progressing ‘well’. He was a little excited to meet such a famous detective though—everyone had heard of Nero Wolfe, even a travelling show. He scrubbed extra carefully behind his ears, and sat extra still as Alfred carefully did his hair, and wore the blue sweater that made his brown eyes look best.

While they rode in the car, Bruce thought for a while, then took the kind of breath that meant he was about to say something very serious. Dickie sat up a little straighter.

‘We’ll have to walk up to the house, and if there’s anybody there, we may have to interact with them...’

Dickie squinted in some confusion. Why would Bruce state the obvious? ‘Yes...?’

‘I have... a persona, in public. The Bruce Wayne everyone knows isn’t who you’ve met. He’s... a character.’

‘Terry the Magician always said “all the world’s a stage”. He said that was Shakespeare. For cirkies and show people, that’s life. Especially the at shows—you know,’ he said, used to explaining terms by now, ‘the wrestling shows in the carnival. It’s like... you’re pretending real life, it’s just dramatic enough to not be, but you aren’t someone from a story everyone knows already. You’re just...’ he trailed off, shrugging. ‘Who they expect you to be.’

‘...Yes,’ Bruce said, surprised yet again at how perceptive Dickie was. It was so hard to really _know_ what a boy from the circus was like, but he was finding out quickly that it meant little tidbits of information like this, about this insular culture.

‘So what’s he like?’ Dickie asked gamely. ‘If it were me,’ he said, gripped by a sudden thought, ‘he’d be what everyone wants a rich guy to be like—spoiled and selfish and kinda...’

‘Ditzy,’ Bruce said, and laughed a little at Dickie’s surprised look. ‘Have you ever read The Scarlet Pimpernel?’

‘I saw it in Terry’s bookshelf once—his trailer was so fulla books, that’s all he spent his take on. Never read it though, it looked like a romance.’

‘You don’t like romances?’ Bruce asked.

‘Not the kind in books like that,’ Dickie said disgustedly. ‘I don’t see why a girl should want a guy who’s mean to her.’

That wasn’t the answer Bruce had expected; but he felt a fresh surge of adoration for it. ‘Well,’ he said, returning to his point. ‘I modelled my public persona on that. He’s exactly like you said.’ He paused rethinking his approach. ‘...Do you think you can play off of that at all? I admit, I haven’t been sure how to explain to High Society why Brucie Wayne suddenly adopted a kid, and is actually paying attention to him.’

‘I’m like those little lapdogs,’ Dickie said, ‘yeah? Like, oh look how cute. Girls talk to a guy with a kid or a dog or a monkey.’

‘You’re not my monkey,’ Bruce said firmly. ‘And I don’t think I want to encourage people to adopt orphans like they’re the newest fashion accessory.’

Dickie reeled at that idea; he wasn’t used to having to think like _that_. ‘You... really have that much influence,’ he realised. ‘You’re _famous_....’ He murmured faintly.

 _‘You_ don’t have to be famous with me,’ Bruce said, ‘...not yet, at least. You’re only nine. It can wait a few years.’

‘Yeah...’ Dickie said, shaking off the shock and trying to think again. ‘Yeah, I need to... learn the new rules...’

‘Good man,’ Bruce said, and Dickie felt a smile spread across his face, confidence swelling in his chest. The car slid smoothly to a halt outside a brownstone, on a fairly quiet side-street of Midtown. As it was morning, there were a fair number of people around; Bruce looked out the window, judging the sidewalk and the street, before getting out.

Bruce always stood like a prince, very straight and steady, comfort and regality flowing off of him. Dickie always liked being near him, it was soothing.

The Bat was, in contrast, a predatory animal. Dickie remembered watching the way Devil the jaguar watched everyone from his cage. The Bat was kind of like that, all coiled muscle and a never-ceasing, but very controlled, very deliberate and cautious and _hunting_ quality to him. You never wanted to turn your back on Devil, Gil the Lion-Tamer had always cautioned, because unlike the lions, a jaguar was _always_ hunting, and would go after _anything_. You could live with him for his whole life, and you’d never be able to go into the cage without darting him thoroughly, and even then be quick about it. The Bat was like that, all sleek and quiet and _waiting_. Dickie liked being around him too, but in a different way. A way that made him lay awake sometimes, thinking about the Bat doing other things than fighting bad guys—things that were no less strenuous. Things he’d only ever heard about, rarely seen... and only very occasionally eavesdropped on. Things that... well, that Dickie knew happened sometimes between men, but he’d never thought to really ask anybody about it.

Right now, Bruce was... Dickie wasn’t sure what to call it, though he knew there was a word for that kind of gait. He was reminded of his favourite character on _Dreadful Boys!_ , Scottie, who lilted his voice and made little ballet-like gestures when he spoke. Dickie was curious at the change, though he understood why Bruce had warned him—gone was the comforting presence, the soothing feeling that Bruce knew what to do, was prepared for anything, would protect him. Competence was replaced by utter entitlement, a laziness that Dickie had seen in the very rich, those who had never even known the danger of the law being against them. And his eyes, as Bruce looked back—Dickie almost drew back in shock. They were empty as the most succulent of marks.

A beat later, Dickie’s heart swelled with admiration and a feeling of even more kinship—Bruce was more like show people than Dickie had ever thought. Thinking quickly, Dickie decided it would be easiest to play the unsure little kid, who didn’t understand why this man was being so nice, but was happy about it, guileless. People liked little kids to be stupid.

He got out of the car, trotting up to Bruce and following him up the steps. The man that answered the door was white, with dark hair and stunning blue eyes in a face that was a little bit off the current ideal for handsome. But he had smart eyes, and a smart voice.

‘Mr Wayne! Glad to see you so punctual, for once.’ He had a thick accent that Dickie would learn later was from Midtown and also learned, but right now Dickie only heard the famous Gotham accent as they were allowed into an expansive front hall, with a staircase going up to the right, and the hall going all the way to the back of the house, an elevator visible at the end of it. An _elevator! In someone’s house!_

As soon as the door closed, however, the act was over; Bruce went back to his princely bearing, and gently squeezed Dickie’s shoulder. ‘Dickie, this is Archie Goodwin. Archie, this is Dickie Grayson.’

‘Hello,’ Dickie said, holding out his hand and smiling. ‘I really like how you tell stories.’

‘Always happy to meet a fan,’ Archie said, with a slightly self-deprecating smile. ‘C’mon into the office. You want anything to drink? I ask because it’s gonna be a tough conversation and we all know it. Fritz even has some cookies in reserve, for fortification.’

Dickie instinctively looked up at Bruce, and he wasn’t fully sure why, but it was comforting to see Bruce’s little nod, feel his hand on Dickie’s shoulder, resting lightly but just enough to remind Dickie he wasn’t alone.

‘I’d like some milk. What kind of cookies are they?’

‘Shortbread dipped in chocolate.’

Dickie couldn’t help his eyes widening. He’d rarely had cookies, mostly the sweets in a circus were the kind you’d expect: cotton candy, funnel cake, and lemonade. Cookies were one of those things Dickie found strange and exotic about the non-show world, just like television.

‘Well,’ Archie said, smiling, ‘I did say fortification, didn’t I?’ and they went into the office. Dickie saw a plate of cookies that had been cut into star shapes, half dipped in chocolate, sitting by a chair in front of a desk.

And at the desk was a man, a large man, reading a book. He looked up when Dickie climbed into the large red chair in front of his desk.

‘Mr Wolfe,’ Archie said, gesturing. ‘Dickie Grayson.’

‘Thank you for coming,’ said Wolfe, and Dickie was a little on edge. He shifted, not sure if he wanted Wolfe to be the cantankerous person he’d read about, exactly. Then again, he reasoned, Dickie was neither a buffoon nor a donkey, and was also a child. He didn’t know what to say, but he didn’t want to sit mute, so he thought carefully to himself for a while.

‘I’ve read about you,’ he said, carefully. ‘Why...’ he trailed off, unsure if he should ask directly; but, he thought, there was no other way to really do it. ‘Why are you being so nice to me? You don’t like people. That’s okay with me, I don’t like people very much right now, especially marks.’

A very small movement at the corner of Wolfe’s mouth, as he studied Dickie with his very sharp eyes. ‘Doubtless you have heard of me from those who have displayed astonishing lack of courtesy. Yet you come in here, to my office, and conduct yourself better than people quadruple your age. I see no reason to provoke you. Mr Wayne says you are a perceptive young man, I hope that will serve you well answering some queries of mine. Your colleagues were not so forthcoming, though that is to be expected.’

‘You tried to talk to Mr Haly?’ Dickie put his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. ‘Or Mr Napier? They’d never talk to you straight, especially since you’re a detective.’

‘I thought it might be thus, but sent Mr Goodwin to try anyway. There’s still information in non-answers.’

‘Tricky,’ Dickie said admiringly. ‘Well, I’ll talk straight with you, Mr Wolfe. Bruce said it would help find the person who killed them,’ he said, swallowing a little as he said it. He looked down, fisting his hands very tightly in his lap for a minute, trying not to start crying. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the plate of cookies, and took one, just to have something else to concentrate on. He didn’t touch the chocolate—he hated his hands being sticky—but just held the delicate cookie carefully by two points, looking at it, smelling it, before cupping his hand under it carefully and taking a bite. It was rich, and sweet like butter more than sugar, and heavy, and the chocolate was like no chocolate he’d tasted before, it was sort of bitter and dark like the smell of coffee or molasses, it went perfectly with the cookie.

Wolfe waited for him to finish, and asked him questions. Dickie knew they only _seemed_ irrelevant, and tried to answer them. He took his time, wanting to give thorough answers. This was for his mom and dad, he told himself, and from that determination to bring them justice, he examined all his memories thoroughly, and discarded the idea that he shouldn’t tell anything to a rube. _Someone_ had killed his mom and dad, _someone_ had sabotaged their lines, their safety net, and it was as likely to be someone from the show as a rube. He didn’t _like_ to think about anybody wanting his parents dead, but who else would have had access to the lines and equipment?

All the secrecy and keeping information from rubes didn’t matter if you were turning on your own, Dickie thought bitterly. But, too, he felt a pang of guilt; if his parents hadn’t died here, now, he wouldn’t have met Bruce. Was he bad for _not_ wishing things would ‘go back to normal’? While Wolfe was thinking over Dickie’s latest answer, Dickie looked at Bruce, sitting in a yellow chair nearby, his legs crossed. The soft light of the office, and the warm colours of red, yellow, and dark wood made him look even more handsome, especially in his tan suit, his tie one of the fancy painted ones.

No, Dickie thought, guiltily, he didn’t want things to go back to normal. It had only been a little while, and he knew that summer wouldn’t last forever, and he’d probably hate going to school, but he didn’t _want_ to go back to the show, anymore; he wanted to stay with Bruce.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickie and Bruce both put down the first tendrils of permanence!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imamá is a combination of the Hebrew and Spanish words for mother. I couldn't find the Ladino word for 'mommy' so I kinda guessed based on reasonable nursey-talk and the two formal words. Bruce is Sephardim via his mother's side.
> 
> Alfred having been Thomas Wayne's valet before becoming Bruce's valet and then butler for the manor is an accurate career path for a servant, I just feel the need to mention this because there is no canon anywhere that seems to have ever researched how to write accurate servants. Also a personal gentleman would be in a better position to raise Bruce, than someone running the entire house.

Dickie liked the narrow, secret little stairs that lead up to the garret rooms, the very top floor of the manor. His first day, he’d asked Eli to show him where they were, and had come up to look out of the windows often. As it was summer, there was no bearing the uninsulated, stuffy little rooms without opening the window. It levered out, with no screen, and Eli told him it was made of old glass, so Dickie should be careful. 

Dickie wasn’t sure why he didn’t feel much like running around outside; maybe it was because outside felt too much like the show, right now. He didn’t mind much when he heard a voice outside, one night, a rasping growl. 

‘You like high places.’ 

The Bat was sitting on the roof outside, somewhere out of sight of the window. Dickie was seized with the urge to climb out and sit on the roof with him, so he did. It wasn’t hard, and he wasn’t really afraid; the roof was intricate and had lots of handholds, and he spotted the Bat up on the top of the slope. One gloved hand reached out and Dickie pulled himself up on it, smiling when that cloak was wrapped around him, along with a strong, armoured arm around his shoulders. 

‘High places help me think,’ Dickie said. 

‘Me too,’ the Bat said with a little smile. ‘What are you thinking about?’ 

‘What you said, about the therapist,’ Dickie said, after a moment. ‘I mean, not about them, but... thinking about all the things I would want to talk about. Questions.’ 

The Bat nodded. 

‘What would they be like? Do you have one picked out?’ 

‘I know a couple of people,’ the Bat said, ‘just in case you don’t get along with the first one you meet.’ 

‘Would I have to keep you a secret?’ 

‘No,’ the Bat said, ‘you shouldn’t keep any secrets from your therapist. They’re like a sparring partner, you have to trust them fully, open up to them completely. If you’re afraid of them at all, for any reason, it won’t work. That’s why it’s been difficult to find anyone, since mine fell.’ 

‘Fell?’ 

The Bat nodded, his mouth drawn and tight. ‘He worked for the FBI. They chased him off a cliff.’ 

‘That’s…’ Dickie trailed off. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, quieter. How would it feel, to lose someone you trusted so much _again?_

‘Absolute power corrupts absolutely,’ the Bat said grimly. ‘Remember that.’ 

They sat in silence for a while. ‘...That’s why you’re a superhero, isn’t it? Because the government is like that.’ 

‘Gotham is one of the most corrupted cities in the world,’ the Bat said, with a bitter smile that was more of a grimace. ‘The man that killed my parents...’ He shook his head. ‘He was poor, and hungry, and scared.’ 

‘What was he scared of?’ Dickie wondered. ‘Your parents?’ 

‘No,’ the Bat said, ‘he was scared of what would happen to him if he didn’t pay his debts. It took me years to unravel the whole story; because I didn’t want revenge. Killing him wouldn’t have brought my parents back. Hurting him wouldn’t either. I thought about both. But… I wanted to know _why,_ most of all. He’d looked so scared, even though he was the one with the gun.’ He held Dickie closer. ‘It’s very complicated, but eventually I found out that the real enemy was the organised crime, and the hold they have over the police, over everything. I spent a long time training, learning. Alfred helped me understand what I needed to know. And when I was grown, I started on my parents’ case. The real one.’ He looked down at Dickie, gave him a one-armed hug. ‘You won’t have to wait so long. You’ve got me.’ 

Dickie leaned against him. ‘I still want to help do it,’ he said, quietly. ‘More than just answering questions, or telling you about this or that.’ 

‘You want to put on a mask?’ It was a genuine question. 

‘I worry about you being alone out there, without a spotter,’ Dickie confessed, feeling silly. ‘I know we’ve only just met,’ he said in an embarrassed rush. ‘But I... I like you a lot.’ 

The Bat was quiet for some time, then bent down to kiss Dickie’s head. ‘I like you a lot already, too. I’ve got to go to work. If you want to start helping me, get downstairs and tell Alfred, he’ll find you something to do. It might be boring for a while, but you have to learn before you can do much.’ 

Dickie smiled, happy to be doing something, ‘Gosh, thanks!’ He threw his arms around the Bat and hugged him tight, before climbing back down the roof immediately, nimble as a little bird, and slipping back into the window. It squeaked slightly, and by the time it half-reflected the spot on the roof where he’d been, the Bat was gone. 

Dickie’s smile gave him something to think about, that night, as did his words. Mostly, they were background thoughts; the Bat worked, followed leads, met up with informants, and stopped a few impromptu crimes along the way, as always. 

But he did find himself wondering what it would be like, in between those tasks, to have someone by his side. 

.oOo. 

That night, when Bruce came back home, the cave was empty of its former little inhabitant; Alfred was waiting, and didn’t look alarmed. 

‘Young Master Dick is attempting to sleep in the garret room, tonight. I provided him with a map of the house, and marked your room.’ He raised a brow a fraction of an inch. 

Bruce huffed a little laugh through his nose, as he took off the cowl; Alfred was always chiding him for not getting enough sleep. ‘I could also sleep up in the garret rooms,’ he said, as he went over to the armoury that led to the showers (privately, he always thought of it as the locker room, even though there was no one to share it with), beginning to strip off, Alfred helping him. Since getting a proper Suit from Edna Mode, however, getting out of the suit went faster, and Bruce had come home with far fewer serious injuries. She did good work. 

‘What did you put him to work doing?’ Bruce asked, a little disappointed that Dickie’s voice hadn’t been on the comms. It was illogical, but he couldn’t help hoping. 

‘Reading,’ Alfred said, as he set the pieces of armour out on the maintenance table. ‘Master Dick has much more to learn than you did, he is going to experience culture shock.’ 

‘I saw the signs,’ Bruce agreed with a nod. ‘I just didn’t know where to begin. He’s teaching me so much, but I don’t know what to teach him until something surprises him. You know, the other day, he said he hadn’t had a home-made cookie before? And he’s never been to the movies.’ 

‘His family travelled around, sir. I imagine candy-floss and elephants seem similarly exotic to you.’ 

Bruce laughed a little. ‘Point taken. But there’s... there’s other things too. Most people, even in Gotham, want to trust the police a little; Dickie acts like they’re going to arrest him. He already has an instinct not to trust.’ 

‘Another logical behaviour for someone who has no fixed address,’ Alfred said, knowing Bruce was mostly using him as a sounding board, needing his thoughts laid out to someone else in order to put them all together into a question. There was a momentary silence while Bruce went to shower off, Alfred beginning to clean the armour, and taking the base layers of the suit, the fabric, to put in the small washer. It was a familiar routine, and there was a kind of comfort knowing that, perhaps, the presence of the little boy might help Bruce take better care of himself. 

‘It’s going to be useful, when I’m training him,’ Bruce said, when he came back, wrapped in a terrycloth robe. 

‘Indeed, sir,’ Alfred said, the refrain of most valets from the old school. It had been long years since Alfred had been a valet, but a butler was merely a valet with a wider scope; he still arranged his master’s life, there was just more life to arrange. 

‘No protest?’ 

‘I remember when you were nine, Master Bruce,’ Alfred said as he rolled up his sleeves, mixed a cleaning solution, and none but Bruce would have understood his tone to be gentle or sad. ‘It would have been good for you, having the chance to be sidekick to a hero such as the Bat.’ He pulled up the work stool and began to wipe down the armour with a rag. ‘Young Master Dickie seems of a same mind. He takes to his studies with that same determination.’ Alfred did not voice that it almost felt like a godsend, this boy coming into their lives. He was not a copy of Bruce, but already Alfred and the rest of the staff spoke on how natural a choice Dickie was, for a son. 

There was a comfortable silence for a while, and Bruce paused by the table. 

‘Go to bed, Master Bruce,’ Alfred said, with a small smile hidden by his eyes being on his work. ‘I believe Young Master Dickie awaits his customary good night kiss.’ 

He heard Bruce’s soft laugh then, and a hand squeezed his shoulder. ‘Thank you, Alfred.’ 

‘As you say,’ Alfred said, as he always did. 

Bruce went up to his room, pausing to check, just out of a sort of mix of worry and curiosity. After his parents had died, Bruce had nightmares almost every night. Nightmares had always plagued him, more than other children; but they had only gotten worse after Thomas and Martha had been gunned down in front of him. At some point, most nights, Bruce had ventured into the only wing forbidden a master of the house—the servants’ hall—seeking out Alfred, curling up in the arms of his father’s valet (his valet, after Thomas' death). Of course, as Bruce had gotten older, he hadn’t had the luxury of doing that; but, as he peered into the darkness of his own bedroom, he wondered if Dickie had already had trouble sleeping all alone. 

The bed was neatly turned down, just like Alfred had left it. There were no small boys huddled in the sheets and feathery duvets. Bruce’s heart sank in a kind of disappointment, even as he shook his head, smiling at his folly in thinking Dickie would seek him as comfort so soon. That kind of thing took years, not weeks.... Bruce went in to change into the cotton pyjamas he used in summer, and paused, going to the trunk at the foot of his bed and digging through the tidily-folded and packed belongings, the cedar smell triggering memories, until he found what he was looking for. He sat back, second-guessing himself as he looked at what he'd sought; he hadn’t remembered Bunny being _quite_ so ragged and love-worn. He supposed he always remembered Bunny as he had been... he _did_ remember the patches he’d sewn over holes, the carefully-cut hearts of ‘sensible black’, the messy stitches, even the little rusty bloodstains from when he’d poked himself with the needle because he’d insisted on repairing Bunny himself—he wouldn’t be Real otherwise. Well, Bruce thought, running a thumb over the threadbare velveteen, it was all right Bunny was so worn. Bruce smiled to himself as he dug through the trunk for the book that had affected him so, as a small boy. The edition he owned had illustrations painted by his mother, and the limited run had sold to Gotham’s elite in an auction to benefit an orphanage; but she’d saved one for Bruce, of course. She saved things like that for Bruce. Her fountain pen still scrolled with wild and joyful abandon across the flyleaf. 

_1933_

_To my little Bruce on his first birthday! Love, Imamá_

The pain of grief was still sharp, but Bruce wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm, sniffed, and smiled. Maybe Dickie was a little old for picture books, but maybe... maybe not. Bruce got to his feet again, closing the trunk and taking the book and Bunny. He paused, and set them on the bed, going to his desk and searching through drawers until he found a spool of blue ribbon, leftover from gift wrapping at some time or other, likely Chanukah, from the colour. He carefully cut a length and tied it around Bunny’s neck. 

.oOo. 

Dickie was still deeply engrossed in the Scarlet Pimpernel when he heard the knock on the door. Marking his place, he went to answer, seeing Bruce in yellow cotton pyjamas and a black robe, holding a picture book that looked very old, and a stuffed rabbit that looked even older. It was the only ragged and patched thing Dickie had ever seen in this house. Bruce smiled a little sheepishly. 

‘Can I come in?’ 

Dickie moved aside, closing the door behind Bruce; he preferred sleeping with the door closed. Bruce sat in the small chair that just barely fit through the door of this little room, and Dickie climbed on the soft brass bed. It was a cheerful room, though it seemed so tiny to Bruce, almost cramped. 

‘I brought you something,’ Bruce said, feeling foolish now that the moment to explain had arrived. ‘I thought maybe it would...’ He looked down, set his jaw, took a breath and started again. He had to believe it, or Dickie wouldn’t. He offered Bunny. ‘This is Bunny,’ he said. ‘He was mine when I was little. He protected me from nightmares. He’s very experienced in these matters.’ 

Dickie smiled gratefully, his eyes filling with tears, though he couldn’t explain why. He took Bunny, and hugged him close immediately, burying his face in the worn velveteen that was too faded to know what colour it was. 

‘There’s a story that comes with him,’ Bruce said, and Dickie immediately scooted over in the bed, which was big enough for two (and, to be honest, too big for such a small room). Still, Bruce was glad for the room, sitting next to Dickie under the covers, and opening the book. Immediately, Dickie noticed the writing on the flyleaf, and reached out a hand to make Bruce turn the page back. Dickie read the inscription, and Bruce heard the littlest of gasps, almost silent. Dickie hugged Bunny even tighter, snuggling closer to Bruce as Bruce went over the words he knew by heart. 

‘There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid....’ 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce talks to Dickie about one of the therapists he has in mind, and about another friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's scent is Aramis, which was new at this time in history, having been released in 1964 in the US. You can find the perfume profile [here](http://www.basenotes.net/ID26120123.html).

Bruce stayed with Dickie, falling asleep next to him. He woke to Dickie squirming around, crying out in his sleep; Bruce was only half-awake, but automatically rolled over and curled around Dickie protectively.

He didn’t remember what he said, but Dickie woke up at the soft rumble of sleepy voice. ‘I’ve got you,’ Bruce had murmured, ‘You’re safe.’

Dickie had woken up fully at that, and purposely snuggled close to Bruce’s chest, hesitating slightly before he set his face against the soft yellow cotton. Bruce smelled like lavender laundry soap and something that Dickie had thought was his suit, but turned out to be _him._ Leather and wood and something spicy-sweet that reminded Dickie of pie. He loved it, and when Bruce woke up, Dickie’s little nose was buried in his neck, where he’d fallen asleep.

Gently, almost afraid, Bruce shifted. Dickie stirred, but only squiggled around and ended up on top of Bruce, who was marvelling at how someone so totally asleep could climb so deftly. He had to hold back laughter when Dickie just fell right back to sleep, now draped on top of Bruce, his snores whistling softly, just like Bruce’s cat. Dickie and Westie even had the same long black hair...

‘...Oh,’ Dickie said, as he woke up half an hour later, and looked up at Bruce. ‘Uh. Hi?’

‘Hi,’ Bruce said, smiling. ‘I guess we fell asleep.’

Dickie shifted, sitting on the bed, only half-draped on Bruce. ‘Uh. I guess. Yeah,’ he said, sheepishly. ‘Thank you,’ he said, in a smaller voice. ‘I was scared to sleep up here alone.’

‘You can ask me to stay here as often as you want,’ Bruce said, sitting up. ‘And you can always come down to my room too.’

‘What if you have... someone... uh, you know, staying the night?’ Dickie asked, trying to be casual about it.

‘He won’t mind, and he usually has his own room.’

Dickie was surprised, and looked up, feeling his heart sink without really knowing why. ‘You... you have a paramour?’

Bruce quirked a brow at the old-fashioned word. Dickie looked down, worrying at the covers.

‘That’s what... that’s what Terry the magician always called them.’

‘He’s not exactly a paramour,’ Bruce said, sounding calmer than he felt, his mind racing to figure out how to explain Ash. ‘We’re... we have sex, but when we’re not having sex we’re mostly friends and colleagues. We don’t go on dates or...’

‘Romantic mushy stuff?’ Dickie suggested. Bruce chuckled.

‘We are definitely not romantic mushy stuff,’ he laughed, then grew serious again.

‘What?’ Dickie said, worried.

‘I don’t know how to say this, but it’s important so...’ Bruce sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and thinking for a minute—well, not so much thinking as bracing himself. ‘I pay Ash for his time and his sexual skills,’ he said, finally. ‘We have regular appointments. It isn’t... _just_ a transaction, but Ash is... a professional.’

‘A professional what?’ Dickie asked, eyes wide. ‘You can be a professional _at sex?’_ He’d never thought about it before. _‘Wow._ That’s _amazing_. Can _I_ be one when I grow up?’

Bruce was glad he wasn’t looking at Dickie, at the moment, because his expression, he was sure, would have been discouraging for its shock. ‘Why... I mean... well, Dickie, it’s illegal to be one, technically. It’s not illegal for good reasons,’ he added, just to be clear. ‘But you can’t go around saying that to your teachers on career day.’

‘So... Ash is a criminal?’

‘Technically,’ Bruce said with a little smile. ‘But he doesn’t hurt anybody, so he’s not a criminal in my book.’

‘Yeah,’ Dickie said, ‘Cops think we’re criminals for being in the show.’

‘And the Bat is technically a criminal too,’ Bruce pointed out. ‘All superheroes are, technically, vigilantes. And vigilantes are illegal.’

‘...Huh.’ Dickie said, and laughed, crawling over to sit next to Bruce. ‘That’s cool. I didn’t know superheroes were the same as cirkies, like that. Do supers have a special language too?’

‘We have a different culture, yes,’ Bruce said, surprised at the turn this conversation was taking. Once again, Dickie surprised him.

‘Keen!’ Dickie said, bouncing  off the bed excitedly. ‘Is Ash a super?’

‘I—yes, how did you know?’ Bruce watched him go over to the steamer trunk and open it, taking trays out until he reached the bottom, and nearly falling in as he bent over to dig around, his voice muffled.

‘His name is Ash and he’s a professional at sex and he comes here a lot,’ Dickie said, finally straightening up, having found his goal—a bathrobe. ‘He’d have to be a super right? Does he control fire?’

‘Ash is his real name, Dickie.’

‘Ohhhh,’ Dickie said, then squinted, his forehead wrinkling up. ‘What’s it short for? Ash... ley?’

‘Dashiell.’

‘Whoa, like the mystery writer? _Keen!’_ Dickie quickly finished tying the bathrobe’s sash. ‘Can I meet him?’

‘You’ll have to eventually,’ Bruce said, smiling at the fact that Dickie apparently knew about Dashiell Hammet already. It sounded like he was quite the mystery fan—Bruce felt a warm kind of excitement at knowing they shared an interest. ‘Come on, let’s have breakfast. I was hoping we could go meet with someone else today.’

‘Who?’ Dickie asked, as he followed Bruce single-file down the narrow, deliciously creaky wooden stairs. Bruce barely fit, he was so wide, but he moved as gracefully as a cat.

‘One of the therapists I mentioned, if you’re ready.’

Dickie caught up to him as they emerged into the wider hallway. ‘Yeah, I’m ready,’ he said, sounding more sure than he felt. But hearing the words in his own voice gave him confidence. ‘So...’ he said, as they walked along. ‘Tell me about this therapist.’

‘His name is Vartan Sugar.’ Bruce paused to see what Dickie would say to that. Dickie laughed in delight, the sound lifting Bruce’s ever-heavy heart. He’d heard the laughter enough to memorise it now, to want to hear it ringing through the house forever.

‘I bet people trust him, with a name like that. It’s pretty. Does he go with it?’

‘I think he does,’ Bruce said. ‘He does art therapy, which I think you might like. My therapist was a mentor of his.’

‘What does he look like? Is it Doctor Sugar?’

‘Yes, Doctor Sugar. Let me see... well, for a start, he’s very tall, and he wears a lot of colour. He has long curly hair and wears old-fashioned little glasses.’

‘Is he handsome?’ Dickie asked, and Bruce was thrown for a minute. Dickie rushed on. ‘I thought you might know, since you’re... you like boys, and everything. Terry the magician liked boys,’ he offered, tentatively. ‘He and Jacky Napier were paramours. Nobody minded.’

Once again, Dickie made clear he was from as different a world—yet. Yet. Bruce knew that the mask community was as blasé about such things—in fact, it had been Ash that had disabused Bruce of the notion that being homosexual was a mental illness, or a sign of same. Bruce supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised at Dickie’s reaction—after all, Dickie didn’t question Bruce’s paramour being a man. ‘I...’ he looked away, a little embarrassed at the contemplation. ‘Doctor Sugar is very attractive, I think. Not handsome, exactly, he’s too fine-boned for that.’ Bruce found himself smiling a little. ‘He has beautiful hands.’

‘Is he white or black?’

‘He’s white,’ Bruce looked down. ‘Why do you ask?’ Because an adult meant something when he asked, but Dickie was nine and curious, and Bruce wondered what he’d say.

‘I dunno, I just wanna picture him in my head a little bit,’ Dickie said, shrugging. ‘Is Ash white or black?’

‘He’s white too,’ Bruce said, ‘he has blond hair.’

‘Is it _ash_ blond?’ Dickie asked, grinning slyly. Bruce was surprised into a laugh, and Dickie joined him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickie has a session with Dr Sugar, the empath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that these next two chapters are Dickie's sessions with the three therapists. I have tried to write each of them as being different but not a one of them are meant to be 'bad therapists'. This may be too personal but I have gone to a lot of different therapists over the years and all of them were terrible, so my portrayal of these three is some wish fulfilment on my part. Informed wish-fulfilment, but nonetheless. 
> 
> In a lot of ways, the way I'm gonna be handling having a sexuality as a child is me trying to work out what would have been best for _me_ at Dickie's age, rather than the oppressive, shaming, abusive treatment I _did_ get. It may rub you the wrong way; that's fine, but I don't really care about whether it does or not, to be honest. I'd rather you just stopped reading, rather than thinking you're doing me a service by trying to 'correct' my 'misconceptions'. Childhood sexuality is something I'm pretty much an expert on, since I started puberty at the tender age of eight, so please, stow your outrage about children 'not having sexual thoughts/feelings' and my 'being a disgusting predator' and just leave if that's what you think; as a csa survivor and a gay man who is writing a fictional story about fictional people while being quite happily married, I am quite tired of being accused of being my abusers.
> 
> If you find the same comfort and affirmation in reading these chapters as I did writing them, that is the best compliment I could possibly receive. It was very difficult, and took all my courage, to post this story at all—but especially these next few bits; but I felt it was important that there be at least one story like it in the world, because statistically I could not possibly be alone in needing the representation of childhood sexuality, and it being treated sensitively and put into a non-villified or -erased kind of light. If you are one of my fellows then consider these next chapters, and indeed this whole story, dedicated to you. <3
> 
> * * *
> 
> Vartan Sugar is an original character.
> 
> Dr Lecter is a creation of Thomas Harris; this version of him is also a creation of Brian Fuller and Mads Mikkelsen.
> 
> Possum Belly Queen - A carny term, named after the 'possum bellies'—a box of extra cargo space on the bottom of wagons, under the floor of the main part. They're just about big enough for a smallish person (like say a small lady person) to hide in. Lots of carnivals, reasonably, didn't allow people to just randomly start tagging along with the show (that's another mouth to feed, and there's no guarantee that extra person is gonna make themself useful); it became common practise for people (usually men) to sneak someone in (usually a woman), hiding her in the possum belly of the wagon. Obviously, these relationships didn't tend to last long. Possum belly queens were usually the same sort of person that became a camp follower in earlier times—someone enamoured with the glamour of the travelling life, at least until the reality set in (but sometimes they did remain interested, everyone has to join the life in some way). 
> 
> Dickie isn't a carny, obviously, but (at least in my universe, because I did my research) Haly's travels pretty consistently with the Napier Carnival. Circuses and Carnivals usually travelled together, partnering up. Both benefitted (read: made more money) from the arrangement. We're going to learn more about Dickie's showfam as we go along, so I hope you're as excited about that as I am!

Doctor Sugar was, Dickie thought, _way_ more than ‘very attractive’. He was everything Bruce had described, but Bruce had failed to mention that Doctor Sugar looked like he’d stepped out of a storybook (of course, Bruce looked like that too, so maybe he hadn’t noticed): His face looked like one of the ancient Greek statues Dickie had seen when Bruce had taken him to an art museum. His hair was _silver_ , and it curled like the Botticelli paintings at the museum, long like Oscar Wilde’s, though falling in curls rather than waves. He was dressed very modern, in a slim-cut suit of green that made him look even taller and complimented his brown eyes, wearing a painted scarf around his neck, under his pink shirt, and very pointy shoes. He walked with a cane; Dickie could tell he needed the cane, despite it being a very stylish one; and he wore only a single ring on his middle finger. It was silver, and had a pretty purple stone in it.

His smile was as soft and the curls at the ends matched the crow’s feet around his eyes. ‘Hello,’ he said, as they shook hands. ‘What would you like me to call you?’

‘Dickie.’

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Dickie. Come into my office?’

‘Is...’ Dickie looked back at Bruce, who didn’t seem to be following them. ‘Is Bruce coming?’

‘Do you feel his presence would help you speak more openly about your feelings and fears?’

Dickie thought. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, truthfully.

‘I know it can be frightening, coming into my office alone; but I usually find that people don’t speak as freely if they’re with someone else.’ He smiled. ‘If you'd like Bruce to come in later, we can come get him; but I’m here to talk to _you_ , Dickie.’ 

The way he said it, Dickie felt like he’d been waiting excitedly all day, just to meet Dickie. It wasn’t a false feeling, like a lot of adults; Dickie felt Dr Sugar was genuinely pleased to meet him at last. So Dickie nodded, and followed him into an office that was as modern and colourful as a Monet painting. There were art supplies everywhere, neatly organised into jars, and drawers, and trays for the paper, and the furniture was colourful and soft-looking, and there was a big low table, and the mural on the wall was of some rainbow fish swimming in a blue sea. Every fish had a nice smile on.

Dr Sugar went to sit down on the armchair in one corner of the room. ‘Sit wherever you like,’ he said, leaning his cane beside him. Dickie went and set on the blue floor cushion by the table.

‘Can I ask you questions?’ Dickie asked.

‘That’s what the first visit is for, I always say,’ Dr Sugar said.

‘How does art therapy work?’

‘When you’re feeling an emotion,’ Dr Sugar explained, leaning forward in his enthusiasm, his long hands moving with his words. ‘There are two things you can do about it: you can create, or you can destroy. With emotions like anger, and fear, it’s very easy to destroy things—relationships, or objects, or saying or doing hurtful things to others or yourself. It takes practise to learn how to create when you’re feeling afraid or angry, rather than destroy. I try to help teach that skill. There are other things, but I think that’s the most important thing that I teach people.’

‘I don’t want to destroy anybody for killing my parents,’ Dickie said, quietly. ‘I just want to know what happened. I... I’m angry, sometimes. But... but I’m not as sad as I should be,’ he said, guiltily. ‘I miss them, but I don’t wish things were back the way they were before.’

‘There’s no “should” about emotions,’ Dr Sugar said gently. ‘You feel what you feel, you can’t control that. It’s perfectly okay to not have regrets.’

‘It’s just that Bruce is very nice, and I like that I haven’t gone back to the show, where everything would remind me of them, and...’ Dickie trailed off, ‘I like Bruce,’ he said, looking at his hands.

‘That’s okay too,’ Dr Sugar said.

‘No I...’ Dickie felt his ears go warm with shame. ‘I mean I... I _like_ him.’

Dr Sugar listened, and Dickie went on, nervously.

‘That’s wrong, isn’t it?’

‘What part?’ Dr Sugar asked, with no particular inflection.

‘Um... I’m nine.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, you have feelings. You’re allowed to have them, and you’re allowed to talk about them with me, even if they are sexual, or if they scare you—especially if they scare you, I should think. Having an emotion or a thought doesn’t make you bad or sick, Dickie. Everyone has _all_ kinds of emotions and thoughts, no matter how old they are. You don’t have to be ashamed of them.’

‘What do I do about it, though? I can’t... I can’t _tell him_. That would be... wrong. And unfair.’

‘Unfair how, exactly?’

‘Well because... because what if he... and he’s grown up, and everything.’

‘His self-control is his responsibility, not yours,’ Dr Sugar said firmly. ‘I’ve known Mr Wayne a long time, he wouldn’t use that information to hurt you. He’d want to talk to you about it, discuss boundaries—we’ll talk about boundaries in a minute—but he would never disregard your safety.’

Dickie hunched. ‘What if I wanted him to?’ he said, feeling a little obstinate.

‘That would be harmful to you. I know something that feels as good as sex doesn’t seem like it would be harmful to share with anyone, no matter how young you are; but the chemicals in your brain that go whizzing around when you have sex make it risky.’

‘Too risky for a little kid, you mean.’ Dickie said sullenly, ‘I understand what sex _is,_ you know!’

‘Sex is a very big and difficult set of skills to master. It takes years, and the best way to start is to become _emotionally_ skilled, rather than focussing on the things you don’t need to practise.’ Dr Sugar’s smile was made all the more smiley by wrinkles, before he grew serious again, a little sad. ‘Believe me, Dickie, I know what it’s like,’ he said, quietly. ‘I had those feelings when I was nine too.’

‘What did you do about them?’

‘Bad things,’ Dr Sugar said, the way people did when remembering something they’d rather not talk about, ‘very, very bad things. I’m not saying that to scare you, just being honest.’

Dickie sighed. ‘This is gonna be hard. Living with him.’

‘Well, let’s talk about boundaries, okay? It’s not very complicated at all; you know how people talk about “where the line is” sometimes?’

‘Yeah?’ That was more than a saying?

‘That’s boundaries. Everyone has them. You don’t call someone you don’t know well by their first name—that’s a boundary. Can you think of some others?’

‘Don’t talk to flatties about yourself,’ Dickie said immediately.

‘Flatties are people that aren’t part of the circus?’

Dickie nodded. Dr Sugar did too, looking delighted.

‘Well, that’s a _very_ good example of a boundary. Can you think of some more person-to-person ones, rather than cultural ones?’

‘Um... don’t hug someone without asking?’

‘Good,’ Dr Sugar said encouragingly, and Dickie tried again.

‘Don’t kiss somebody on the mouth if they aren’t your paramour? Don’t sit on their lap, or cuddle them?’

He was clearly not so much in this office as in the waiting room, Dr Sugar realised; and he didn’t need his powers to be able to tell _that_.

Dr Sugar gave a soft, sweet chuckle, that Dickie didn’t feel like was mean at all. ‘He _is_ very distracting, isn’t he?’

‘He’s _so_ handsome!’ Dickie exploded with enthusiasm, clutching his crossed ankles and leaning forward. ‘He looks like a _prince_ like from a _story_ , and the first morning I was there I woke up and there was a _big steamer trunk_ full of clothes! Really fancy ones! I felt like that girl in this story I read once, where she wakes up one morning and there’s all this stuff in her little attic room, fancy rugs and things, only she didn’t _know_ who it was from and I _do_ and he’s also—’ he hesitated, and dropped his voice very low, very quiet, ‘you know, he’s the Bat, and everything. He beats up bad guys and he’s gonna find the murderers and they’re gonna go to jail forever or maybe the chair I don’t know—anyway, _gosh_ he’s so handsome. And he just—he knows what to do when I’m crying, and he’s so _nice_ he gave me his bunny from when he was little, and reads me stories and kisses me goodnight and... and...’ Dickie ran out of steam, having to catch his breath. ‘I’m gonna be a little bat,’ he said conspiratorially to Dr Sugar. ‘I’m gonna fight bad guys too.’

‘All the things you mentioned—aren’t those things a father does for his son?’ Dr Sugar pointed out, gently.

‘Well _yeah_ but...’ Dickie realised all in a heart-crushing suddenness. ‘Yeah,’ he said, in a small voice. ‘He doesn’t... like me, does he? Not like that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dr Sugar said, _very_ gently. He didn’t want to discourage Dickie unduly, only coax him to look at the facts.

‘He’s right outside, can’t we ask him?’ Dickie asked desperately, tears on his cheeks already. Dr Sugar leaned back, tracing his cane thoughtfully with his fingertips.

‘I’m thinking,’ he said, after a moment. ‘About whether that’s going to help, not about giving you permission. You’re free to talk to him at home about whatever you like, of course.’

Dickie looked over at the trays of construction paper, and the jars of supplies.

‘Yes, love,’ Dr Sugar said, ‘Go on and take anything you like from the art cart.’

Dickie went and picked out some red paper, and crayons, and a pair of scissors. He folded the paper like Jacky Napier had showed him once, and drew one half of a heart on the folded edge, then cut it out. When he ran out of folded edge, he made a new one, until the paper was gone and he had a pile of red paper hearts, slightly creased. He got up and threw the scraps in the bin by the art cart, and looked through the drawers in it, not sure what he wanted, just seeing what he could find. There was some string in a big spool, and he took it back to the table.

‘Are you okay,’ said Dr Sugar, ‘with me telling Mr Wayne your feelings first, before he comes in? That way, he isn’t surprised, and doesn’t get scared.’

‘He’s not scared of anything.’

Dr Sugar smiled ruefully. ‘Adults have a lot of fears, just like kids.’

‘I know,’ Dickie said, carefully poking holes in the hearts with the point of a pencil, threading them onto the string. ‘But _he’s_ not afraid of anything, he’s the Bat. People are afraid of _him_.’

‘Even the Bat has fears,’ Dr Sugar said gently. ‘Allow him the possibility of being scared, Dickie. That’s important if you want to build a close relationship with him.’

Dickie stopped threading hearts, for a minute, and frowned. ‘That’s... that’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘He... he’s _allowed_ to be scared, I just....’

‘I know,’ Dr Sugar said, ‘it’s all right, Dickie, you’re not in trouble. When we like someone, and we’ve never seen them afraid, it’s easy to think they aren’t afraid no matter what, because it helps us feel safe, and because not being scared is seen as a quality that Good, heroic people have.’

‘I’m not in trouble?’ Dickie wasn’t sure why he felt like he should be in trouble.

‘You’re not in trouble, Dickie, that’s not why I’m talking to Mr Wayne first, I promise. Think of me as a kind of diplomat, or translator. I go between people, and translate their feelings to one another.’ He paused, remembering what Bruce had told him already. ‘That’s my superpower.’

‘A _real_ superpower?’ Dickie said, sceptical.

‘Yes.’ Dr Sugar said with a little nod, ‘My superpower is empathy. I can see and feel the emotions other people around me are feeling.’

‘Wow, that sounds hard. Doesn’t it hurt?’

‘It does,’ Dr Sugar said simply, ‘but when I help people feel better, it’s worth it.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ll be just a minute, I promise I won’t make you wait too long.’

.oOo.

It had only been ten minutes when Dr Sugar came back out to the waiting room. Bruce got to his feet, worried immediately, and followed him to a small office down the hall. This one had a desk and filing cabinets in it, though it was still in modern, soothing colours.

‘Dickie has a very strong attraction to you,’ Dr Sugar said, after closing the door. Bruce sat down in the visitor’s chair slowly, and Dr Sugar went around to sit at his desk. ‘I thought so,’ he said, softly—because now, with the other of them isolated, he could feel the same emotions rolling off of Bruce.

‘And you aren’t going to tell us to ignore it and that it will go away?’ Bruce asked. ‘He’s _nine,’_ he said, with an angry kind of guilt that said he was reminding himself more than Dr Sugar. ‘I shouldn’t have feelings for him.’

Dr Sugar folded his hands on the blotter, and looked at Bruce quietly, waiting.

‘...and Doctor Lecter always said the feelings we have are not under our control,’ Bruce said, sheepishly, ‘only what we do to act on them. We create actions, not sensations.’

‘Exactly why I wanted to talk to you first,’ Dr Sugar said, pushing himself to his feet, taking his cane from where it was leaning beside him. ‘I didn’t want you to be surprised, and to say something potentially shaming. If you feel the same, that only leaves the discussion of what is and isn’t allowed in regard to acting upon your feelings.’ He smiled encouragingly, touching Bruce’s shoulder. ‘I think you’ll both be fine,’ he said, and they went into the therapy room.

‘So,’ Dr Sugar said, cheerfully, ‘guess what, Dickie? Mr Wayne feels the same way about you.’

‘Okay...’ Dickie said cautiously, looking up from his string of hearts. ‘So what do we do about it?’

‘We don’t feel ashamed, first of all,’ Bruce felt like it would be important for him to say it, knowing how he’d felt when it was first said to him. ‘We shouldn’t ever feel ashamed of our feelings, or thoughts.’

‘Love is a positive emotion,’ Dr Sugar agreed. ‘The important thing to talk about is what actions are appropriate with the other person, and consider the circumstances.’

‘So what... what would you think is appropriate?’ Dickie asked Bruce, nervously. Bruce answered thoughtfully, and took his time choosing his words.

‘I’m not comfortable kissing you differently than I have been, or doing different kinds of touching than we have been. But I’m not going to stop doing those, either, just because we both feel a different kind of love.’

‘Okay,’ Dickie said, and couldn’t hide his disappointment.

‘There are lots of other ways to express and explore your feelings for one another,’ Dr Sugar said to Dickie. ‘You can use words, talk about a time during the day when you thought about a specific thing you love about the person, or you can write poetry,’ He smiled and nodded down at the paper hearts Dickie was working on, ‘or create beautiful things.’

Dickie had finished stringing the hearts, and had found some glitter, carefully gluing it to every other one. It wasn’t _just_ Dickie’s emotional aura that had made Dr Sugar decide to bring Bruce in right away; art done idly was usually a very good indication of what feelings were most in need of discussion.

‘Can we train together?’ Dickie asked, after sprinkling glitter on his banner of paper hearts for busy moments. ‘Trusting someone on the wires,’ he went on, ‘you can’t hate them or... or not feel anything, for them. Because you have to trust them to catch you. It’s the same when you’re training to fight bad guys, right?’ 

He’d started off talking to Dr Sugar, but somewhere in the middle he’d started talking to Bruce, who felt relieved at how well Dickie was taking this. It could have gone so badly, and Bruce would have hated himself if he’d broken Dickie’s heart.

‘That’s a good idea,’ Bruce said, because it was; and Dickie smiled, and everything turned to sunshine. ‘We can also spend time doing things together, sharing our interests. That’s what adults do when they’re interested in a relationship with one another.’

‘But that’s friends stuff.’

‘It is; you should be friends with people you want to be your paramour, or it doesn’t last.’

Dickie thought about this. ‘That’s why possum belly queens don’t last,’ he said, finally, mostly to himself.

Dr Sugar and Bruce exchanged the same look with one another; the circus definitely had some colourful bits of jargon.

‘What about my sexual feelings?’ Dickie asked, after a moment. ‘What do I do about them? I mean... you know, um... my body... doing stuff.’

‘Erections?’ Dr Sugar said, with a soft, un-aggressive neutrality. Dickie nodded.

‘I’m used to—saving mine for later,’ Bruce said, stopping himself from saying _‘ignoring them’,_ as he realised that was a bad example to set, ‘but I have a lot of practise, and mine aren’t as... urgent, as yours, Dickie.’ But what could they do? Several inviting but very, very Bad Idea kinds of possibilities presented themselves, and Bruce threw Dr Sugar what he hoped was a subtle plea with his eyes.

‘You could get some toys,’ Dr Sugar suggested, when Bruce looked lost.

‘There are _toys_ for _sex?’_ Dickie’s eyes were wide. ‘Why the _heck_ haven’t I seen them in any stores?’ His tone said that clearly, if he had known this, he would have hundreds of them.

‘They’re hard to find in a store,’ Dr Sugar chuckled, pulling a card case from his pocket and plucking out a card. ‘Here,’ he said, offering it to Dickie, who took the card and tilted it back and forth, fascinated by the holographic text. ‘If you call her, she has the best ones.’ He checked his watch subtly as he put the card case back—their time was up. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think we’ve made some good beginning steps today, even if we aren’t going to see each other again.’

‘But I like you a lot!’ Dickie rushed to reassure him.

‘And I like you, Dickie; but you have to pick a doctor based on whether they’re the best fit for what you need help with. And that’s a decision you make after meeting a few, not just one.’

‘But I like you,’ Dickie said again, and looked at Bruce. ‘Can’t I just pick Dr Sugar?’

‘Give Dr Kyle and Dr Pihl a chance, sweetheart,’ Bruce said, dropping the endearment automatically. He tried not to second-guess it.

Dickie said he would, but as he walked out of the office with Bruce, the card in his jeans pocket, he _knew_ he’d already picked Dr Sugar.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dickie meets Drs Kyle and Pihl, and learns a bit more about the gay community.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part of Dr Selina Kyle will be played by the One True Catwoman, Eartha Kitt. The reason she seems overly harsh about funerals has to do with [this book](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_American_Way_of_Death), which was published in 1963 and which seems like the kind of book Selina would read and take to heart.
> 
> Tex, Clarence, 'Felicity', Dr Pihl, and the cabbie are original characters.
> 
> All discussion of gay and leather sexuality in this chapter is as researched and accurate to the times as I could get it, tempered with my own experiences within the context of that time period.
> 
> The key code is the precursor to the handkerchief code. It was very simple and only indicated whether you were a top or a bottom.
> 
> Calling a gay man by a feminine name and pronoun is an old tradition that still continues in some gay communities to this day (you can still hear it in the Village area of nyc), and originated as a way of rebelling against toxic heteromasculine expectations. It is not the same as misgendering.
> 
> In this universe, the Vietnam War never happened, because communism never became as important an enemy. Instead of the anti-communism sentiment of the 1950s, there was anti-super sentiment that resulted in the Super Relocation Program from the Incredibles film. Which of course blew up in everyone's face once Syndrome was put on trial for his crimes. All of that took place before this story happened, some years before.
> 
> This is the chapter where a gay concentration camp survivor is mentioned, though nothing graphic is mentioned and I took care not to use the n-word just in case it triggers anybody. 
> 
> Also briefly mentioned is a childhood accident resulting in missing fingers. This is not made up for shock factor—my grandfather had that exact accident at the age of four, with the same results. And he wasn't the only member of my family, of that generation, that ended up missing something because of a childhood accident, so I thought it would be realistic for Terry to have a similar type of character detail.
> 
> Having lived in nyc for some years (I don't anymore), I can tell you that no matter how much you clean your place, it's gonna be permanently dirty and you're gonna have roaches. It really can't be helped, and I just got used to them—partially because I used Pihl's method of calling them 'skippies' instead.

Dr Kyle’s office was full of art and expensive things, and pretty statues, and lush sofas in dark brown leather. There was a cat in her waiting room, a tidy black cat with white paws and a white spot on his chest that made him look like he as wearing a white shirt and a little black suit. He blinked sleepily at Dickie when they came in, and rolled over immediately, reaching out his paw toward Dickie, begging for pets. Dickie obliged him, learning from his soft leather collar that he was named The Count.

Dr Kyle was a lady with brown skin, a square jaw, and a very throaty voice; she was younger than Dr Sugar, about Bruce’s age. Dickie liked her, but he didn’t quite want to tell her about how he felt about Bruce. There was something uncomfortable about telling a lady person that stuff. So, instead, he tried asking her about Bruce, because they seemed to know each other.

‘Bruce says his parents were killed when he was my age,’ Dickie said. ‘And... he’s helping me talk to detectives and stuff, so I can help find the murderer.’

‘He’s good about that. Do you feel better, knowing you are doing that?’

‘Well...’ Dickie thought, ‘Yeah. I know it won’t bring them back, but people get away with hurting cirkies all the time, and people need to know that we’re... that if you murder a cirky it’s still murder,’ he said, surprised at how passionate he felt about it. He remembered the Bat’s words in that car, that night. ‘That it’s still **_wrong_** _.’_

She hummed, which was more of a purr really. ‘That’s a very mature point of view,’ she said.

‘Is it mature to not want to go home, or even... even go to their funeral?’ Dickie asked, in a smaller voice. He hunched his shoulders, wishing he had something to colour on, or cut out. But Dr Kyle’s office just had a soft sofa.

‘Funerals are for the living,’ Dr Kyle said, dismissing the entire concept with something like disgust. ‘I never go to them, myself. It’s one thing to visit someone’s deathbed, to say goodbye; but after they’re dead, everything you do is for your own comfort about their absence. Some people like to grieve in a spectacle, some don’t. Some people visit a grave, some move away and sell everything that reminds them of the dead, and never speak of them again.’ She shrugged. ‘What you do is what you do, there’s no right or wrong way to grieve. I’m here to help you understand that.’

They talked for a while more, but Dickie just didn’t feel the same connection with her, and was glad when the session was over. She was nice, but she reminded him too much of the advice one of the Napiers might have given him; and they were a little too hard-hearted and structureless for Dickie to feel like he could trust them with his feelings.

.oOo.

Dr Pihl’s office had art in it too, but instead of the art being of animals, it was of people, and wasn’t very expensive-looking, but was very alive, somehow. Dickie wondered if Dr Pihl had painted it himself, because Dickie had never seen a painting of _boy_ ballerinas before, or boys with such pretty faces. The chairs were all mismatched and comfy, the radio was on, and in a sharp difference from Dr Sugar _and_ Dr Kyle, there was someone else in the room; a tanned white man with a lot of muscles and black hair, dressed in black leather pants and motorcycle boots and a leather jacket with a white t-shirt beneath. He had very blue eyes, which Dickie saw when he looked up from his magazine at them. He smiled politely, but went back to reading. Bruce sat on the other side of the room, so Dickie couldn’t go sit next to the man, and sat down next to Bruce. Soon, a very pretty young man with red hair in a quiff, carrying a box, came out of the door that led to the hallway. He had keys hanging from the left side of his tight jeans, which caught both Bruce and the man’s eye. He felt their gazes and flushed as only a redhead could, giggling.

‘Oh, hell; I wasn’t thinking, I just stuck them on any place.’

The white man had already gotten up, not threateningly, and smiled, coming over to take the box out of the redhead’s hands. The redhead switched his keys to the right side, and finally noticed Dickie, startling slightly. ‘Oh... hi, sweetie,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

‘I’ve heard someone say “hell” before,’ Dickie said, trying to reassure him. He wondered if it was uncomfortable to blush that hard. He’d never asked any of the Napiers. ‘It’s okay. What are the keys about?’

‘Um. grown-up things,’ the redhead stammered, just as Bruce said:

‘Sex.’

The redhead, but not the other man, looked at Bruce with some shock. Dickie was grateful Bruce was honest with him, once again.

‘You can ask Dr Pihl when he comes to get you for your appointment, okay?’ Bruce promised, ‘He’s good at explaining.’

‘Okay,’ Dickie said, with a bright smile.

‘Isn’t he... a little young, for that?’ asked the redhead.

‘Not to learn about it,’ the other man countered calmly, giving a friendly wink to Dickie before starting for the door. ‘Come on, Clarence, if we hurry we’ll be in time to meet Felicity for drinks.’

Clarence brightened. ‘He’s in town?’

‘For one night. So hurry, boy.’

Clarence giggled, and held the door for his friend... his paramour? Dickie wondered. They had an easy banter, like best friends, but there was something flirtatious beneath it. He was about to turn to Bruce and ask about the keys again, impatient, but someone else came through the door. He had a long brown ponytail with grey at his temples, and blue eyes, and a goatee, and _tattoos_ , and smiled at them.

‘Dickie, right?’

Dickie got up. ‘What do the keys Clarence was wearing mean?’

Dr Pihl chuckled, not unkindly, and said, ‘Let’s go sit in my office, and I’ll tell you. Not you, Bruce,’ he said, when Bruce made to get up. ‘You stay here.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Bruce said, playfully.

‘So,’ Dr Pihl said, when they got into his office—which felt like a cool game room, there were records and a hi-fi on one side of the room, and it was all in comforting earthy colours. Dr Pihl wearing jeans and a t-shirt only made it feel more casual, like they were having a visit. ‘Key symbolism in the gay community. I’m assuming Bruce explained gay to you?’

Dickie nodded, liking how Dr Pihl just started right off with a regular conversation, like they were just two people talking. Maybe Dickie had been right to give all three doctors a chance, like Bruce had said….

‘Well, gay men need an easy way to show what they’re looking for. With men and women it’s easier, because you know whose cock is going inside whom, because there’s only one cock in that equation—well, usually. With two men, you need some kind of signal about which you prefer.’ He smiled a little. ‘That’s the short explanation.’

‘Bruce and that big man both seemed kinda like Clarence was being... rude, or shocking, or something, because his keys were on the wrong side.’

‘And that is the long explanation,’ Dr Pihl said, chuckling. ‘Most people prefer one or the other all the time, and there’s a kind of... hm... there’s an idea of pseudo-gender roles. Just like there’s ideas about how “proper ladies” and “real men” act, there’s ideas about how a gay man should look and act that signal to others what “gender” of gay man he is. Someone like Clarence is usually a bottom. Tex—that was the big man in the waiting room—is a top. So is Bruce.’ He raised one impressively-angular brow. ‘Can you work out those terms or should I explain how sex usually works between two men?’

‘Um, a top is the one doing the... thrusting? Right? And the bottom is... well, that’s _where_ you would have to put it, if you didn’t have a vagina.’ He grinned. ‘Terry the magician taught me all about this stuff a year ago. Just how it works and what everything’s called, nothing fun. I didn’t know there was a secret community of gay people until Bruce started talking about it. Do you know Ash?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s a professional bottom, right?’

Dr Pihl laughed, holding a hand out in plea. ‘I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing because you surprised me.’ He pulled the band from his ponytail and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m not used to hearing those words out of such a young mouth. Yes, Ash is a professional bottom. There are professional tops too.’

‘How do you know which one you are?’ The prospect of being one was exciting and sort of magic; being interested in men was something Dickie had felt scared of, but now, knowing there was a whole culture and community, it was exciting, and he wanted to know _everything_.

‘Conventional wisdom is that bottoms are younger, and tops are older; but that’s not always true. It helps to try bottoming at first just because it helps you learn to appreciate gentleness, so you’re more likely to be careful when you top someone. That’s always been my belief, anyway.’

‘So what if you like both? Don’t most people like both?’

‘They do, but that’s where the long explanation comes in a little more. It’s not just about the act itself, it’s about personality and performance. Do you watch Dreadful Boys?’

‘Yeah, I love that show!’ Dickie said, ‘It’s my favourite! I like Scottie. I like his puns.’

‘Scottie is the archetype of a bottom.’

‘Really? I’ve seen Bruce act like that too, sometimes. It’s an act though.’

‘It helps him to be seen that way,’ Dr Pihl said, chuckling.

‘So... he acts like a bottom so that people won’t take him seriously, but really... he’s a top?’ Dickie hesitated. ‘Is... um. Is the Bat-man a top?’

Dr Pihl raised his brow, and Dickie felt equal parts thrilled and sort of like he was talking to a dad or an uncle about something slightly illicit that he’d done recently. He squirmed.

‘Are... are you a top, Dr Pihl?’

The brow lowered, and there was a quiet smile, tightly holding in something just a little bit spooky. It was a nice kind of spooky. ‘You have a good instinct for this already, well done. As for the Bat-man...’ He chuckled. ‘I haven’t exactly seen him on the prowl for sex. You’d be able to answer that question better than me, so I hear.’ He folded his hands.

Dickie wasn’t sure if he knew or not, and hesitated. ‘He’s really nice,’ he said, looking down at his lap. ‘And sexy.’

‘And he wears leather,’ Dr Pihl added, chuckling again. ‘Lots of people do think the Bat-man is a top—or they _hope_ he is,’ he added. Dickie looked up.

‘Lots of people want to have sex with him?’ Dickie asked, hopefully. ‘Lots of... of other boys?’

‘Oh _my_ , yes.’

‘Do... you want to have sex with him?’

 _‘Hmm,’_ Dr Pihl lilted, almost purring, a little of that nice-spooky again, ‘yes and no. Do you?’

Dickie tensed. ‘Um... yes. A lot. Every day. But I’m nine,’ he felt he should remind Dr Pihl of this, despite himself.

‘Fantasy doesn’t have rules,’ Dr Pihl pointed out.

‘Well _yeah_ , but...’ Dickie trailed off; actually, that was a pretty good argument, except...

‘But?’

‘Most people don’t know him,’ Dickie mumbled, sinking down in his seat, ‘or live with him.’

‘I can see how that might be a problem. I used to live with someone I had a crush on too, it’s tough. Especially if he doesn’t like you back, or if you’re too young for it to be... hmm, what’s the word I want....’

‘Allowed?’

‘Oh, sweetheart, we’re _gay_ , I don’t think any of us live our lives based on what’s _allowed_. In most countries we’re criminals for being what we are. No, I was thinking more about the experience gap. An age difference is a challenge, especially the bigger it is. Even adults with an age gap have difficulty, you know. It’s not about you being nine. You could be sixteen and Bruce could be... oh, say forty? And there would still be a challenge connecting with one another.’

‘Dr Sugar suggested toys,’ Dickie mentioned, trying to sound casual, even though the thought was still enough to make him feel like bouncing up and down with excitement.

‘I would too,’ Dr Pihl agreed. ‘But I’d also suggest learning about the generation Bruce came from, trying to understand the events he lived through. Some of it was harrowing stuff.’

Dickie sat very still for a long time, and thought. There weren't any wars going on right now, there hadn't been since the big War, the one that had a capital W. He’d heard some stories about the War from Terry, the only person in the circus _or_ the carnival that had been in the War or would talk about it. Terry was from Europe, which was where all the terrible things happened, the prisons and the fever and the Germans. ‘Terry has numbers on his arm,’ Dickie said, very quietly. ‘He says bad men put them there when he was in a prison, during the War, because... because he was gay, like us.’

Pihl got very quiet, very still. ‘That... yes,’ he said, his voice quiet with something that might have been horror, or tightly-controlled anger, or both.

‘That’s why he joined the carnival and won’t ever stay in one place ever again,’ Dickie said, hugging his knees to his chest. ‘He never said anything else, he just said it was scary and I was a small pure boy and he didn’t want to make me sad.’ He sniffled. ‘I miss Terry.’

‘Do you want to tell me about him?’

Dickie didn’t answer for a long while, thinking. ‘Terry’s a magician,’ Dickie began. ‘He’s very grand and tall and he has bright green eyes and white hair. He does the best magic ever, and he’s nice to everyone, even marks. He just likes to make them happy, and put on a show. Carnies aren’t usually like that,’ Dickie explained. ‘He’s missing parts of some fingers because he stuck his hand underneath a lawnmower when he was little.’

‘Gosh.’

Dickie giggled, just because Dr Pihl didn’t look like the kind of person who said ‘gosh’ regularly. ‘You can swear around me, it’s okay. I know them all. ...Maybe I should write to Terry. Would that be rude?’

‘Rude?’

‘Well, I don’t really... I don’t want to really go to the funeral, or go... go back. I’m going to visit their grave and put flowers, that’s... that’s all I think I can do,’ Dickie said, even just saying it made his chest feel tight and his eyes hurt.

‘Dickie, love,’ Dr Pihl said, getting up to cross the short distance and sit beside Dickie on the sofa, ‘it’s _okay_ if you don’t want to go back to a place that reminds you of people you lost. Most people do that, when someone they love dies. They stop going to places that remind them of that person, sometimes forever, because it hurts too much.’ He reached over and plucked the tissue box off his desk, offering it. ‘Terry’s still alive, and you love him. I think he’d want to hear that you’re okay.’

Dickie took the tissue gratefully, but couldn’t stop crying for a while. Dr Pihl didn’t stop him, or even hush him, and didn’t protest when Dickie climbed into his lap.

‘You’re safe,’ he murmured, arms around Dickie. ‘Cry as much as you want, darling.’

When Dickie was done crying, and not before, Dr Pihl asked if he wanted to go home. ‘We’ve talked about a lot of tough things today,’ he said, ‘I think it’s good to pause our conversation here, for now.’

‘It’s because I started crying, isn’t it?’ Dickie felt embarrassed at how easily he cried. Boys weren’t supposed to cry so much.

‘It’s okay to cry, lamb,’ Dr Pihl said firmly. ‘Emotions take energy, just like running or climbing; and people cry when they’re overwhelmed, which is a good time to _stop_ whatever is making them _be_ overwhelmed. Your heart needs a nap, that’s why you’re crying. Even adults cry when they’re tired, it’s just usually they only get tired in their hearts, instead of how kids get tired in their bodies.’

Dickie took another tissue from the box. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said, in a watery voice.

‘Crying is badly understood,’ Dr Pihl said, gently petting his hair. ‘Most people tell boys it’s weak to cry, but that’s like saying it’s weak to have feelings or be tired. It’s _ridiculous!_ _Everyone_ has feelings and gets tired, not just girls or children!’ He nodded toward the door. ‘You want to splash some cool water on your face before you go back to Mr Wayne?’

Dickie nodded, his head feeling uncomfortably hot and swollen, like it always did after he’d been crying. Dr Pihl led him down the hall to a little bathroom that was well-scrubbed, but was the kind of old that meant it was impossible to really get clean. There was a small roach on the wall, but Dickie didn’t mind; it was just a bug.

‘Don’t mind Skippy, darling, he won’t do you any harm,’ Dr Pihl said, seeing Dickie’s eyes go to the roach. Dickie splashed his face before answering, in a clearer voice.

‘Skippy?’

‘That’s what I call roaches. It’s a friendlier name. You’d be surprised how powerful a name can be.’ He handed Dickie a clean old towel that was comfortably scratchy and worked very well.

‘I don’t mind bugs,’ Dickie said, hanging up the towel and looking at the roach again. It hadn’t moved, just waving its little antennae sedately. ‘Well, unless they wanna drink my blood.’

Dr Pihl chuckled, ‘Skippies definitely don’t want to do that; they eat what you do.’ And they went back to the waiting room. Dickie was sure his eyes were a little red, and he was a little glad when Bruce looked concerned, even though he was worried that Bruce would think Dr Pihl had been mean to him.

‘We talked about tough things,’ Dickie said, wanting to explain. ‘I’m okay. I want to write Terry, from the show. I miss him.’

‘Okay,’ Bruce said, offering his hand; Dickie took it, but what he really wanted was to be picked up like a much younger boy. He didn’t ask, though; it seemed a little babyish, even _if_ Dr Pihl had explained that Dickie’s feelings were tired and needed a nap.

Bruce and Dr Pihl said good-bye in a friendly sort of way to each other, and even hugged like men sometimes did; Dickie felt a little bit like he was distracted from the world, and maybe like in a dream, and just held Bruce’s hand and let himself be led, thinking about everything. When they got to the little stoop, Bruce paused, looking down at Dickie.

‘Sweetheart, you look tired. Will you let me carry you for a while?’ Bruce knew if he’d asked as though it were a service to Dickie, Dickie might refuse out of trained-in masculine pride; offering like saying ‘yes’ would please him would likely work better.

‘Um, yeah, I guess. If you want,’ Dickie said, but held on very contentedly when Bruce picked him up, balancing him on one hip. He fell asleep before they got to the end of the block, where Bruce hailed a cab. While necessary for appearances at galas and ballrooms, Bruce had never really _liked_ the flashiness of having a private car. They congested the already-overtaxed streets of the city, so he preferred using cabs and trains for everyday.

‘Hiya, Mr Wayne,’ the cabbie flashed a bright smile, but Bruce appreciated that he was speaking quietly. ‘You take th’kid to th’pi’tures, or somethin? My kid always falls asleep at th’pi’tures.’

There was a movie theater on this block, and Bruce made a policy of letting other people steer the conversation; they told you more if you didn’t surprise or challenge them. ‘Oh, it’s _normal,’_ he said, playing the clueless new parent. ‘I had no idea what to do with the little lamb when the lights came up.’

The cabbie’s dark brown eyes twinkled in the rearview, ‘Kids get tired. What’dja go see? Sounda Music?’

‘That Darn Cat,’ Bruce said, knowing it was playing, and having seen it; besides Brucie Wayne didn’t go for musicals or sentimental drama.

‘Ah yeah, my little guy liked that one pretty good,’ the cabbie said, ‘he loves animals, my Avraham.’

Bruce made polite, soft small talk with the cabbie, experimenting with how he could realistically make Brucie a parent; it turned out to be pretty easy, to Bruce's surprise—the cabbie gave him the idea that people would assume it was their shared tragedy that motivated Mr Wayne to become a responsible parent.

Bruce was surprised to learn that even working hard to make his public persona a callow, ditzy socialite, people had no trouble coming up with perfectly reasonable explanations for why he’d adopted Dickie. They still thought the best of him, despite his efforts; once, it had worried him. Now, he was just grateful that Dickie wouldn’t grow up having to defend him. After thinking that, Bruce wondered how a person could simultaneously feel like someone was a son while also having romantic feelings for them.

Well, wasn’t _that_ a question for all the leather daddies Bruce knew! He suppressed the urge to laugh or maybe shake his head, at that, and settled Dickie a little more comfortably against him, in the back of the cab.


	8. Afterword

I promised myself I would respond to some comments I've gotten. I am going to put a note here with those replies:

_I've received some kind words on this story, from a person I'll call Break (hi Break!), and I would like to thank that person for speaking up and sharing with me. I have saved the comments you have made to read over and over, and they have helped me feel a lot better too, as I hope they made you feel good to write them. Thank you so much. I am in awe that I was able to affect even one person so deeply and positively with my stories._

_This was my first real foray into DC fanficcing, and while I'm sad I couldn't keep it quite as aloft as I wanted, I'm still glad I tried and think it's a good story as it stands. At the very least, it satisfied my feelings of outrage about ASBR, and it touched some readers, which in turn touched me. I am again so grateful for everyone's comments, thank you. I do read all of them. I hope you will come along with me on other adventures soon, and remain,_

_Sincerely,_  
_Camp as Heck._


End file.
